


Snot Rockets

by ejacutastic



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen, Short, Sick Character, Will be some weird fluff shit if I continue it, i don't know how to tag, please clap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 16:21:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17369291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ejacutastic/pseuds/ejacutastic
Summary: A very sick deputy finds a suspiciously well stocked cabin and eventually comes face to face with its owner.rewritten 5/10/19





	Snot Rockets

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a damn thing since high school so encouragement is very appreciated lol 
> 
> originally wrote this while unreal sick and unable to sleep. rewritten because it was kind of bad. now it's less bad! also I ignore grammar rules a lot sorry. anyways here ya go.

Rook was sick. Not sick in the tiny sniffle and a cough way, but sick in the can't-think-straight-can-barely-sleep-tossing-and-turning way. She felt like steaming garbage and she knew she had to find somewhere to lay low before a judge tore her limb from snot filled limb. Rook pulled her bag off of her back and crouched, pulling the crumpled, marked up Hope County map out of her bag. Reading maps was not her strong suit, but her skills had been forced to improve since Edens Gate cut off the access to phone GPS navigations along with the rest of the internet. She turned her body North with her compass and pinpointed her location as accurately as possible, determining that the closest known safe house was about 3.5 miles West. It'd have to do. 

It took about an hours time and the emergence of a throbbing headache for Rook to admit her snot stuffed brain had perhaps maybe _possibly_ led them astray in the mountains. The forest was dense here, leaving little room for navigating through the foliage. She picked out her compass again, flicking open the cover with her thumb and moving herself it until the pointer wobbled around the bolded letter N once again. South towards The Henbane. She could at least head that way until the forest cleared up enough to give her some sort of bearings. That was the safest bet to figuring out where the hell she was. 

Rook was approximately fifteen minutes into her journey when she saw a small clearing ahead. A small cabin sat in the center, looking previously well lived in, but now eerily empty. The building was faced away from her, a single window sat to the left on the exterior wall showed no signs of human activity. Likely one of the many Hope County resident homes left vacant since the cult started to make for increasingly shitty neighbors. She pulled her handgun from its holster, pulling back to check the bullet in the chamber and flipping off the safety. She sat hidden in the tall weeds watching and waiting for what felt like an eternity before standing.

She made her way through the brush until she could see the front of the house, approaching when the only activity seen was a lone pileated woodpecker slamming away at a nearby tree and voicing its complaints to the world in trilling song. The screened in porch was adorned with a single wooden chair and what looked like an old Whiskey box with some brand she didn't know printed on the side in script letters. An empty ashtray sat atop it. All were covered in a fine layer of dirt and dust.

She cringed at the squeak of the hinges on the screen door. She walked a few more steps to give a testing knock on the door, not exactly eager to walk into a hypothetical (though admittedly justified) shotgun if, by some small chance, the resident was still present and less than happy with her home invasion. The silence stretched on and rook pulled out her trusty police issued lockpicking set. The door opened with a click after several minutes of poking and prodding and she swung it open wide, pistol at the ready. She cleared the house one room at a time and, when satisfied, relaxed and took a good look at her surroundings. 

The inside was less dusty than the front porch, though it certainly didn't look actively dusted. Rustic was...a nice word for it. Small windows kept the light to a minimum, dark wood veneer walls making the space feel smaller than it was (and it wasn't a particularly large space). Any furniture that existed was purely for functional purposes. Backwoods minimalism, she dubbed it. She sat down on the worn and discolored couch and exhaled a breath she didn't know she was holding and her physical condition seemed to rush back to the forefront of her mind. Christ she felt like shit. She sent out a series of short calls on her radio for her nearby companions with no luck.

"Might as well get comfortable," she sighed, as it became clear she was alone on this miserable ride. 

She rifled through the house, finding a decent supply of non-perishable foods and a small pile of blankets. Whoever the overly prepared mountain-loving fuck who owned this cabin before was, they'd certainly left it well stocked. She left the propane lights off and turned on the small gas heater, twisting the knob to pilot, pressing it in and clicking it on, thankful that it was in working order as it certainly attracted less attention to the cabin than the wood stove. She grabbed a can of spaghettios from the kitchen cabinet, pried it open with her knife and dug in a spoon, too exhausted to heat it up. She threw every blanket she could find onto the bed and settled in for her immune system's rollercoaster with a good phlegmy cough.

Two days later and she didn't feel a damn bit better. Somehow she felt worse. Much, much worse. Her head throbbed angrily and her inflamed, raw throat had her only drinking the water she absolutely had to. Snot leaked out of her nose and she wiped it freely onto her sleeves and blanket nest. 

Somewhere between the second and third days of sick hell, Rook jolted awake to the sound of the cabin door swinging wide open. A single set of heavy footfalls entered the cabin. She scrambled for her gun, training it on the closed door of the bedroom, frozen. The footsteps stopped for a moment then got fainter as they scouted the cabin, seemingly sensing something amiss. Rook waited, muscles tense, adrenaline the only force in her body working in her favor. Finally, the footfalls reached the bedroom door, feet shadowing through the crack. The door slammed open in a second and the rookie deputy almost laughed out loud as she found herself gun to gun with Jacob Fucking Seed.

Jacob stood frozen for several moments, taking in the deputy, her sickly glare through puffy eyes and the snot smeared onto every single one of his damn blankets. 

"Damn. You look like shit, deputy."

He looked like he could almost laugh (was Jacob Seed capable of laughter?). Rook rolled her eyes, trying to keep her gun steady and exude every drop of false confidence stored in her body. "Thanks, Jacob. You too."

His eyebrow twitched in amusement. "You wanna go ahead put that gun down, deputy? We both know you're in no place to win this fight."

"Doesn't mean I won't try, Jakey. I'm in no mood to go on all-inclusive cage vacation right now."

He grunted, his weight shifting as his stance relaxed. "You won't be going there. Not right now, at least. You're in no condition for training. You wouldn't make it five minutes. And you, honey, don't get the luxury of death just yet."

Rook glared, searching the man's gaze for his intentions but knowing, no matter how remiss she was to admit it, he was fucking right. She had no fight in her body despite how much wrath was in her heart. She reluctantly lowered her gun, placing it gingerly on the simple night stand, glaring and waited for him to do the same. Jacob followed, lowering his rifle, and setting it to his side within arms reach. 

"Now, do you wanna tell me what the fuck you're doing in my cabin."


End file.
